


The Lady and the Knife

by ThrillingDetectiveTales



Category: Luther (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, I'm here for Alice Morgan, oops I fucked up the tags sorry, seriously it's barely even hinted at, when I say "loosely implied" I mean it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 12:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8577979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThrillingDetectiveTales/pseuds/ThrillingDetectiveTales
Summary: “He thinks he’s a sociopath, your bloke?” Luther asked. He had his head to one side, studying John with a knowing gaze.John considered for a moment.“High-functioning,” he said eventually, with a little shrug. “So he says.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time I was watching _Luther_ and started to think about how precious it was that Sherlock thought himself a high-functioning sociopath when there existed one Alice Morgan. I started writing a dumb little scene about it and then promptly got distracted. I ran across it in my Google Docs earlier and thought some of you might be interested, so I tidied it up and here we are!
> 
> This story is in no way canon-compliant either to _Luther_ or _Sherlock_ so don't worry about spoiling anything for yourselves. It exists in cross-over space and as such is an outlier and should not be counted.  <3
> 
> I'm working on the next chapter of the ghost story - it'll be up sometime this week though I can't promise when exactly since I have massive work deadlines to contend with. Thank you all for your patience and understanding, and I hope you enjoy! <3

“He thinks he’s a sociopath, your bloke?” Luther asked. He had his head to one side, studying John with a knowing gaze.

He was a big fellow, broad-shouldered and with the solid build of a brawler. There was freshly applied medical tape over a cut across his eyebrow, and a nasty split in his lip that wasn't quite bad enough to require stitches, if the gently milling paramedics were to be believed.

Sherlock had him pegged as ex-law enforcement - though anytime John attempted to bring it up Luther shrugged it off or diverted the conversation - which might explain his sudden interest in Sherlock's mental state, now that the case they'd all fallen into together was neatly tied up. Even beyond that, there were any number of reasons he could be asking  - from plain curiosity to the early seed of a macabre obsession like the one that had festered for so long in Moriarty.

John considered for a moment.

“High-functioning,” he said eventually, with a little shrug. “So he says.”

“That’s cute,” Luther laughed, a tiny huff of a thing, and shook his head, rubbing at his chin. Something in John bristled a bit at the brush-off, hackles rising ever so slightly. Luther must have picked up on it because he waved John’s concern away with a hand and shook his head. “No, no, sorry. I don’t mean anything by it.”

“Sort of seems like you do,” John said lightly. Luther arched an eyebrow at him. John smiled the bland, pleasant smile that had caused so many people to underestimate him at critical moments. Luther laughed again.

“I really don’t,” he assured, cupping his meaty paw amiably over John’s shoulder. “’s just a bit funny, is all.”

“Funny?” John pressed. Luther shrugged.

“Sure.” He glanced down the street, to where his redheaded accomplice was stood next to Sherlock. They were a striking pair, even at this distance – their pale features and dark coats flaring blue with every sweeping circle of police lights from the cruisers scattered about the scene.

When Luther didn’t elaborate, John pinned him with an expectant gaze. Luther didn’t even look over but he must have felt its weight because after a moment, he sighed.

“He might think he’s a sociopath,” Luther said slowly, thoughtfully. “Might even seem like one, next to the rest of the twats you lot have to put up with on a given day. But he isn’t one. Not really.”

Sherlock looked over at them, as though his attention had been magically beckoned. He quirked his eyebrows just a bit, just enough that John could pick out the motion at a distance.

“No?” John asked. Luther shook his head.

“No.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because,” Luther said slowly, deliberately, never taking his eyes from the pair down the street, “I know that particular monster intimately.”

John swallowed, something in his chest pulling tight and wary at Luther’s words. Surely he couldn’t be implying –

He looked over, a little desperately, and found Sherlock frowning at him. Luther’s companion was gazing up at Sherlock, enraptured - _studying him_ , John thought distantly - a sharp quirk at the edges of her mouth. She stared for a few long seconds and then turned her head to look at John.

Her blue eyes glittered in the lamplight, flat and cold, and a yawning, icy pit opened up in John’s stomach. The dark pink slash of her mouth widened, delighted, at whatever she saw in his face. She took a gloved hand out of her pocket and waved with her fingers.

“You don’t – ” John started, confused and a little horrified, stomach twisting sickly. “Surely you don’t mean – ”

“I assure you, mate,” Luther said lowly, clapping John’s shoulder again, “I do.”

He pushed himself up off of the tail of the ambulance and took a few long loping steps. He hesitated for a long second and then turned on his heel, the hem of his coat swishing about his thighs.

“Listen, I’d appreciate it if you kept that between us.”

John looked up at him, the furrow in his brow and the deep, serious set of his mouth. He considered, for a moment, all of the things Sherlock had done in the wake of Moriarty – unfathomable, unjustifiable, unforgivable things.

“Sherlock probably already knows,” he said absently. Luther ducked his head in a nod.

“Probably.”

John nodded along, glancing beyond Luther’s shoulder, to where Sherlock was striding purposefully down the street toward them.

“All right,” he said. “Just between us.”

Luther tipped his head forward again, brushing his fingers against his temple in a lazy salute.

“Much obliged,” he said, turning and continuing on his way to where his companion was waiting, her teeth gleaming as she grinned, sharp like the edge of a knife.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“They made it work, the three of them,” Alice said, tilting her hand back and forth so that the wine in her glass swirled around and around in a dizzying circle - red and then purple and then red again in the low glow of the hotel lights.

Luther hummed, curious. He was in the bathroom, leaned over the counter and patting his face dry. Alice could see the broad line of him in the mirror. It was appealing, for a lot of reasons – all that raw power tangled up and piloted by such a singularly intriguing mind.

“Sherlock and his John and their wife,” Alice expounded. “They made it work.”

Luther came strolling out of the bathroom, frowning.

“What does that have to do with anything?” he asked.

“Rather a lot, I should think,” Alice said, arching an imperious eyebrow. She dug her bare toes into the feather-soft duvet. Luther didn’t respond beyond settling onto the bed opposite hers and resting his elbows on his knees, watching her expectantly.

She watched him back for a long moment and then sighed and rolled her eyes. Swinging herself around in a sudden burst of movement, she sat up so that she mirrored Luther’s position and took a sip of her dry red.

“Do you ever think about going back?” she asked. Luther frowned again.

“Get to the point, Alice,” he demanded in his low, rumbling voice. Not in the mood for games, then.

“Zoe and Mark,” Alice said, before Luther had even finished speaking. He went satisfactorily quiet and Alice took another sip of wine. “You could go back to her, to both of them, maybe. Talk through your problems, figure out the _kinks_.”

She knocked her bare ankle against Luther’s, savoring the rough edge of his dress pants against her skin. Luther shifted away, breaking the contact and licking his lips.

He watched her with liquid-dark eyes and Alice preened under the attention. It was fascinating, honestly, that she’d known him so long and still couldn’t always get a clear read on him. It was part of what made him so very appealing.

“It must be tempting,” she pressed.

“No,” Luther said, low and immediate. Alice tilted her head.

“What? Not even a little?”

Luther took a deep breath and settled back down, posture relaxing.

“Not even a little,” he said quietly.

“John, are you lying to me?”

Luther smirked and stood up, leg brushing deliciously against Alice’s knee as he passed by her.

“I know better than to do that.”

He meandered over to the dusty old duffel bag he insisted on carting around, despite the fact that Alice had offered to buy him new luggage every time they picked up and moved, and started digging absently through it.

“You know, your mate Sherlock thinks he’s a sociopath,” he said absently.

“What?” Alice asked, a little incredulous. “Really?”

“Mmhm,” Luther hummed. “High-functioning.”

Alice giggled, despite herself.

“Well, that’s just _darling_ ,” she said, delighted, and took another sip of wine. When she smiled, for a flicker of a second there was bitter red in her teeth. “Wildly untrue, of course, but charming all the same.”

“Charming,” Luther echoed, huffing a laugh and coming up with a pair of clean boxers in a boring, generic plaid. He tossed them onto the empty bed and undid his belt buckle. “Bloke thinks he’s a sociopath and you find it charming.”

Alice narrowed her eyes, tilting her head and smirking, sly.

“So do you,” she said lowly. “Don’t tell me you don’t, I’ll know that you’re lying.”

Luther made a sound not unlike a growl deep in his chest, though his mouth curled sweetly at the corners, something dark and heavy in his gaze as he moved toward her, all the banked strength and lithe motion of a predator.  
  
“I already told you,” he rumbled, coming to loom over her. “I know better than to do that.”

She drained the last of the wine from her glass and offered it up to him, gaze skimming the powerful arc of his neck, the bunch of muscle in his shoulders as he took it from her and leaned over to set it on the nightstand. He was a true creature of beauty, her John Luther.

“Well, now,” Alice said, with a pleasant little sigh, as he settled in front of her again. She nudged her ankle against his again, and this time he leaned into it. Alice grinned, sharp. “We’ve solved a mystery and stopped a murderer. Whatever else shall we do with our evening?"

“I’m certain,” Luther murmured, dark and lovely,  leaning down to meet her as she tilted her face up toward him, “that we can come up with something.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <33


End file.
